Letters of Comfort
by Tragic Ophelia
Summary: He got letters during that summer. Somwhow, that comforted him.


Title: Letters of Comfort

Author: Ally (alison_cruse@yahoo.com)

Rating: PG

Spoilers: "Wild At Heart," I guess. 

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns this.

Summary: He got letters. Somehow, that comforted him.

As he packed his things, he found a yo-yo from third grade. It was red, and he had played with it for months, until it disappeared. He played with it, before placing it into a box. That's where everything he had ever known was going: into a box. He was packing up a lifetime of memories, of events, and shipping it somewhere new.

There were periods of time. Pre-wolf, where he had been... normal, almost. Post-wolf, after he had been bitten, and everything changed. Pre-Willow, where he had just been Oz. Post-Willow, where he was a part of something... he was a part of Oz and Willow. These were all very important times., but there was one more important. Post-Buffy.

He loved her, like a sister. It was the kind of friendship where, if they needed each other, it worked. If they just wanted to hang out, it worked. It was an easy, comfortable time for both of them. Post-Buffy was also dominated by things. Things that go bump in the night. Things that would make most people shudder, lock themselves inside, and scream. Sometimes, he did that. More often, though, he'd just watch, forget it, and move on. Monsters were real. After all, he was one.

His friendship with Buffy was different. Different than any other one he had. He stopped thinking as he pulled out a set of pale blue envelopes, wrapped with a rubber band. Sighing, he pulled the first one out and read it. Setting it down, he remembered why their friendship was different: she trusted him. Sure, she trusted Willow, Xander, Giles, and even Cordy, but she wrote to him after she ran away that summer. She trusted him most of all.

Once a week, he'd get a letter. Always in the pale blue stationary she picked up somewhere on her way out, always addressed to someone random, from a new name. Usually, it started with "B" or maybe "Anne" or maybe some sort of tree. He knew it was her, though. He'd go up to his room, read the letter, and then slip it into a desk drawer. Next week, same thing. His stepmother always asked him what it was, and he would just say "A letter from a friend." She always accepted that.

Even if the letters had been from one place, even if she hadn't asked him to not tell the Scoobies where she was, he wouldn't have told them. He knew what she was going through, and that she needed space from them. He knew Xander was upset over her departure, and that was turning into anger everyday she didn't come home. He knew Willow felt alone, felt lost without her, and yet... He didn't try to change that. It was an almost selfish feeling that he got when he remembered she had chosen him.

In some ways, he was glad she had chosen him to write to that summer. She was trying to explain what had happened, at least in some way, so that people knew she was okay. She had shown that, while he was the newest Scooby, she trusted him. She respected him as Willow's boyfriend. He thought it was a very nice way to say "Welcome to the Scoobies."

As he packed, he wondered how Willow was coping. How she would cope when he told her he was leaving. He knew he had to do this, he needed to leave, but for some reason, he couldn't tear himself away from this group. A group he had become involved with due to Willow. He knew if they broke up, and he stayed, it would become weird. Buffy and Xander would want to hang out with both of them, for a while, until they decided Willow needed them more. There would be awkward moments between everyone in the group. Eventually, he'd just move on, as they would.

So he was leaving, choosing instead to be a memory of the good times, rather than of the bad. He was going to make sure someone knew where he was at all times. Once a week, he'd send her a letter. He'd choose a new name every week, except for the first, where it would be a letter from him to her. After that, who knew? It was just so that she knew he was okay, and could somehow give Willow peace of mind without every saying "I'm getting letters from Oz every week. He's okay, Will." She knew what that would lead to, as he did as well. Picking up the letters, he placed them into a box, at the very bottom, and filled it. Taping it shut, he looked around his room. Everything was packed. It was done. Grabbing his bag, he walked out the door, and headed to a store. 

Walking inside, he headed to the paper department. Finding a set of pale green stationary, he grabbed a few boxes. He wasn't coming back for a while. He paid for the stationary, and threw it into the back of the van. One last stop, for Willow, and he was gone. After that, he was free to leave, to try to not hurt Willow anymore. It was for the best. She'd understand when she got the letter. 

****

Years Later

He got a new letter that day. Week after week, year after year, he had sent her a letter. After he settled in London, after the addresses became constant, she started to send him letters. At first, hers had been hesitant, light, nothing like her old ones. Now, though, they were different. It was where they were with each other during that one summer. She trusted him, he trusted her, and they kept in touch. All except for those months where she was dead, and he had all of those letters. They were just "returned to sender"-ed by Willow and Tara. 

The new letter was pink. A pale, soft, rosy pink. When he would sleep that night, he'd see it in his nightmares. When he would later burn that letter, he would see it. When he would be on his deathbed, years from now, his wife and children by his side, he would still see it. The color was imprinted in his mind, the black ink making it 

Willow was dead.

She wrote him to tell him that Willow had died. Not too painfully, but not painless. She wanted him to know when the funeral was, what happened, how she screwed up. He could see the tears on the paper, the streaks that had been left by the ink. He almost see her writing it, a powerful, physically strong woman, writing words that were hurting her more than anyone else would ever know. He knew that this letter must have killed her to write, because it wasn't just Willow. It was going to hurt him, too, and she loved him. Not like she did Angel, but like a brother. Like her closest friend.

He picked up a new pack of stationary, this one a dark, blood red, and wrote a response. He couldn't come. He wouldn't come. At least, not with everyone else. It wouldn't feel right. He and Willow were different. He promised to come, soon, and see her, see Willow. Right now wasn't a good time. He left it as that, and sealed the envelope. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Willow. It was something else, something else entirely. She'd understand when she got the letter.

****


End file.
